Elmore Leonard - Riding the Rap

Louis hung up the phone still smiling a little and looked at Chip.

“Mr. Cedric Walker was in the gun business. Got out right before the man he was dealing with went down.”

“You offered him fifty thousand,” Chip said.

“Yeah, and that’s cheap.”

“We don’t have fifty thousand.”

“We get paid, he gets paid.”

“That wasn’t what you told him.”

“Yeah, well, I will when he gets here.”

“What if he won’t take us?”

“Man, you got to stop worrying so much.”

Chip looked at the screen and then at Louis again, Louis lounged on the sofa.

“You said… at one point you said ‘three.’”

“I did? Three what?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking you.”

“I don’t recall saying it.”

“And right after, you said yeah, you were sure.”

Louis shook his head. “I don’t know, I must’ve been commenting on something Mr. Walker said. He’s gonna have a lady he knows at the bank look up Harry’s account, see how much he has in it. That must’ve been it, yeah. Mr. Walker asked we talking about a few million? I said yeah, about three. That was it.”

“You didn’t say ‘about three,’” Chip said. “You said ‘three.’”

Louis was pushing up from the sofa. “Maybe you didn’t hear it right. Maybe you’re stoned or you got wax in your ears.” He walked past Chip, glancing at the TV screen, Bobby still there waiting. Louis said, “You worry too much for no reason.”

Bobby got up from the patio table saying, “Okay, you ready now?”

“What you want me to do?”

“Here, put it in your pants.”

Louis took the Browning auto from him, looking at it, racking the slide then, saying, “It loaded?” He snapped the slide back again and a cartridge ejected. “You not suppose to play with a loaded gun, man.”

“I want the right feel, the weight,” Bobby said. “First I’m gonna try this one, then my own gun. You ready?”

Louis was wearing a loose white cotton shirt and loose gray cotton pants with a tan cloth belt. He slipped the Browning into his waist against his belly, and dropped his arms to his sides.

“Like this?”

“Move it around more to the side.”

Louis slid the gun around to his right hip.

“You need a coat,” Bobby said. “The guy always wears a coat.”

“Come on, man, we just playing.”

“I want to see what it looks like,” Bobby said. “I’ll get you one.” He went past Louis into the house.

Louis walked out to the swimming pool that looked like a pond with green scum covering it, the water a murky brown underneath, the sides of the pool turning black, Louis thinking there could be snakes in there, giant beetles and different kinds of ugly shit growing down in the bottom. He felt a breeze and raised his face to it, looking out at the ocean. He believed he could sit all day and look at the ocean, but had never tried it. He believed he’d like to have a boat and cruise around the Caribbean islands in it. Wear white pants, barefoot, no shirt, a red bandanna covering his head. No, kind of a lavender one.

Bobby came back with a black silk blazer hooked on his finger. He held it out. Louis had to come over to where Bobby stood by the table to take it and put it on. The coat fit him and felt good except for the sleeves, an inch or so too short on him.

He watched Bobby backing away now, almost to the edge of the patio. Louis turned to face him, seeing maybe fifty feet between them now. He moved toward Bobby saying, “Man, you too far away.”

Bobby backed up some more saying, “Stay there,” and Louis stopped.

He said, “Man, this far you have to be a dead shot,” brushed the sport coat open with his hand and put it on the grip of the Browning. When he brought his hand away, the coat’s skirt fell back in place. “What’re you gonna do, count to three?”

“You don’t count,” Bobby said, “you feel when the guy is gonna draw his gun and you go for your gun.”

“Watch each other’s eyes,” Louis said, “I think is what you do.” He stood in a slouch, hip-cocked, arms hanging loose at his sides. He watched Bobby getting ready. “Hey, I spoke to my man in Freeport. He’s coming Saturday.”

“I don’t want to talk now,” Bobby said. “Okay, you ready?”

“Ready for Freddy,” Louis said, watching Bobby shift around to get comfortable in his pose. “He ask me how many was he picking up,” Louis said.

“Man, quit talking, all right? You ready?”

“I’m ready,” Louis said.

He saw Bobby’s left hand pull up the front of his fiesta shirt, right hand digging for his gun. Louis whipped the skirt of the blazer aside, took hold of the Browning and pulled it free as he saw Bobby’s gun rising toward him, Bobby with his legs apart in kind of a crouch, the Puerto Rican gunfighter, putting that black muzzle-hole on him.

“You’re dead!” Bobby yelled.

Louis raised the Browning, cupped his left hand beneath the grip the way they did in the movies and fired. Shot Bobby square in the middle. Fired again and put another one in him, Bobby stumbling back now, arms in the air, tripping on the edge of the tiled patio and falling to land flat on his back.

Louis walked over to him. Saw blood covering the man’s good fiesta shirt. Saw his chest rising, working hard to suck in air. Saw his eyes open. Louis said, “Mr. Walker ask me how many people was he picking up. I told him three. You understand what I’m saying, Bobby? You ain’t going, nigga.”

It was like watching a movie. Not a feature film or even a made-for-TV movie. More like a low-budget flick shot on video-way too bright, the sun high above the two guys pointing guns at each other. But very familiar, a scene out of every cowboy flick ever made. Chip smoked his weed thinking, Shit, I’ve seen this one:

Louis with his back to the camera, a three-quarters rear view-Chip could see the gun Louis was holding-and Bobby facing the camera, his back to the swimming pool. Chip thinking, They’re like kids. Nothing else to do, nobody to shoot… He used to do this with his buddies. Want to play guns? They’d get out their cap pistols and shoot each other and stumble around taking forever to fall.

When Louis fired, Chip saw the gun jump in his hand and saw Bobby drop his and throw his arms in the air as he was hit and hit again and it knocked him down, Bobby caving in and blown off his feet at the same time, without any stumbling around.

Hey, shit-it brought Chip straight up on the sofa.

He heard the gunfire, faint pops coming from outside, like a cap pistol firing, but Bobby was down, lying there with real bullets in him, and Louis was walking over, looking down at him now and saying something. Louis turned then to look at the camera, held the muzzle of the gun to his mouth and seemed to blow into it. Another familiar bit, Louis mugging for the camera. Now he was dragging Bobby by his feet to the deep end of the pool. He tried to push Bobby in with his foot, but had to get down and shove with both hands before Bobby rolled over the side, gone.

Was Bobby still alive? Chip wasn’t sure, but it looked like Bobby tried to grab hold of Louis as he went in the pool.

Louis stood with his hands on his knees looking down at the scummy water. Now he came over to the patio table, laid it on its side and wheeled it by its round edge to the pool, to the spot where he’d dumped Bobby in. Louis let the table fall in the water, jumping back as it splashed up at him. He turned to look at the camera again. With a big smile-Jesus, like a kid-proud of himself and wanting to be acknowledged.

Chip said out loud, “Nice going, man,” thinking, Yeah, great; but beginning to have doubts. That took care of a serious problem-Bobby. Or did it?